If Only
by Aurora West
Summary: A foray into the mind of Oliver Wood and the trials and tribulations of his seventh year.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I own only what you do not recognize as J.K. Rowling's. It isn't much. 

Author's note: Sadly, I only got two reviews for my last Harry Potter story--I love you two, though. Truly, I told everyone I know that you reviewed "So." Several times. So (ha ha, no pun intended) here's the deal to all you people reading my fanfiction and _not_ reviewing it: review! I suppose that isn't very threatening, is it? My self-esteem is fragile, though, and when no one bothers to leave me feedback, good _or_ bad, it plunges me into a depression and I contemplate suicide...okay, not really. But still, it's the principle of the thing, you know? 

Chapter 1 

Oliver Wood was insane. At least, all his friends thought so. He looked normal enough to most people—brown eyes, short, usually tousled brown hair, and an easy smile—but his friends knew. He was totally nutters. It wasn't just because he spent practically every waking moment on a broomstick or that Quidditch occupied his thoughts day and night, it was…no, actually, that was it. 

He was seventeen years old and a seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His last year. His last chance to win the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor House. That would have been a poignant story, had everyone that associated with him not heard it about a hundred million times since arriving at Hogwarts a month ago. He was never seen without a notebook full of Quidditch tactics. Professor McGonagall, the head of Gryffindor House, had confiscated it one day in Transfiguration, and Professor Snape had taken points from Gryffindor on many occasions when he noticed Oliver poring over it. He had a tendency to stay up late, long after the Common Room was empty, to study moves and tactics, and had long since checked out everything about Quidditch from the library. 

Fred and George Weasley were going to have him committed. That, in fact, was the first thing that Oliver heard on Thursday morning. He groggily opened his eyes and looked up at two identically exasperated boys. "Wood," one of them said, "If you want to win the cup this year, I suggest you live long enough to do it." 

"Yeah, how late did you stay up last night? You probably just fell asleep, actually." 

Oliver blinked slowly and rubbed his face. "I thought I went upstairs last night." 

The Weasley twins shook their heads and hauled Oliver to his feet. "Nope," George replied. "You were mumbling crazily to yourself about the Wronski Feint when I went to bed." 

Fred grinned. "Yeah, and that was about two." 

George smirked at his brother. "Oh, I'm surprised you noticed. You and Angelina were still snogging at that point." 

"Angelina and I have never _snogged_, you prat! What are you talking about?" 

"Well, you nearly were." 

Fred swung his fist playfully at George. "We were doing our homework. Angelina's too busy with homework for a boyfriend, remember?" 

Oliver finally tuned in to the world around him at this point and looked at Fred. "Weasley, I think Angelina is just too busy for _you_." 

"You know, Oliver, every day I wake up, and I long heart and soul for her. Every minute without her is like an eternity, and I feel as though my heart is being torn out every time I see her." He sighed dramatically. "And then you go and say something like that. How could you?" 

George nodded sadly. "He's fragile, Oliver. I wouldn't be surprised if he throws himself from the Astronomy Tower later today. 'Course, that could just be to escape Divination." 

Oliver stared at the two of them and burst out laughing. The twins exchanged a satisfied glance as Wood began, "Here's a suggestion, Fred. If you feel that strongly—and I really had no idea what life was like for you—then you should probably mention something to her. That is, if she hasn't noticed already." 

"Nah, Angie would laugh. She'd think I was joking." 

"Joking about what?" 

The three boys turned around and saw a tall, slim black girl descending from the girls' dormitories. Her hair was messy, but she was dressed and was carrying all her books. 

"Nothing," Fred answered, giving her a wide grin. "Want to go to breakfast?" 

Angelina Johnson yawned. "I can't, I have to get to class." 

"What? And miss breakfast? You're passing up the chance to eat?" 

She rolled her eyes. "I'm looking a little big in the thighs, you know, Weasley." 

"Your thighs are perfect," Fred told her fervently, grinning and ducking as she swatted at him. 

Oliver and George looked at each other, and the latter snorted, "Cute, isn't it?" 

"Very," Oliver agreed sarcastically. Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Listen, you three, I want to have a meeting tonight to discuss this Quidditch season. We really should get practicing if we want to win—" 

Fred and George abruptly began jumping around Oliver excitedly and yelling, "Tactics! Tactics! We get to talk about tactics!" 

"—so Angelina, if you could tell Katie and Alicia, I'd appreciate it." 

"Sure." With a laugh at Fred and George's antics, she said, "See you guys later." 

Meanwhile, Fred had picked up Oliver's tactics notebook and was riffling through it with a serious look on his face. "You know, Wood," he began, "I think this move here on page eight is very good. I think it would work well in minute thirty-two of our first game—" 

"Give me that!" Oliver snatched it away. "You two are the most annoying people I know. I hope you realize that." 

"Of course we do!" George replied enthusiastically. 

"I'm glad you're so broken up about it." 

Fred grabbed Oliver by the shoulder and pushed him towards the portrait hole. "C'mon, let's go down to breakfast. I'm starved. Tough work, sleeping." 

"And you need your strength for your rabid pep talk tonight," George added. 

Fred gave his brother a stern look. "Sh, don't talk about our captain that way!" 

"Sorry, Captain." 

"It's okay, Weasley." Suddenly, Oliver realized he really wasn't hungry at all, and said so to the twins. "Just meet me in the Common Room later. Oh, and if you see Harry, then—" 

"Yeah, yeah, we'll tell him," Fred said. "Go to class, then, Wood." 

And so, exhausted, rumpled, and wearing the same clothes he had the day before, Oliver did. 

~ 

Thursday was Double Potions day. Bright and early, and with the Slytherins, Oliver hated it. Not that most of the Slytherins were really that bad. In fact, there were several perfectly nice ones in his year. But as long as Slytherin House held Marcus Flint, class with them would always be torture. Flint, of course, was the captain of Slytherin's Quidditch team. He'd managed to fail his seventh year, and sometimes Oliver wondered if it was only so he'd have the chance to win the Quidditch Cup one more time. Ridiculous, of course. Flint was actually just an idiot. There wasn't a person on the planet that Oliver hated—except for that revolting troll. He could remember a time when Flint was merely an unpleasant presence in his life. Just a classmate who taunted him when presented with the opportunity. A rival. But since his fourth year, the two of them had been mortal enemies. In the three years since then, the boys had been in several scuffles, and, as a result, several detentions together. Quidditch matches against Slytherin were always a violent business. Flint usually managed to rack up several fouls for his team by beating on Oliver. 

And every Thursday, they had to spend two hours together. It didn't help that Snape favored the Slytherins tremendously and would probably laugh if Flint poisoned Oliver. There was one redeeming quality about the class, and that also happened to be the reason for Oliver and Flint's enmity. 

Oliver pushed open the dungeon door, glad he was early so he could have his choice of seats. As he walked into the empty classroom, Snape looked up from a potion he was brewing. "Wood," he greeted civilly. 

"Hello, Professor." Snape was not the nicest man in the world, but he had never been too extremely unfair to Oliver. He figured it was best to stay on the Potion master's good side. "What's today's lesson?" 

"I'm sure you'll find it almost as interesting as your Quidditch notes, Mr. Wood. Anti-venom potions. You'd best pay attention." Snape continued brewing the potion, then said, "Now that Quidditch season is beginning, I trust that you won't be mysteriously absent from my class." 

Oliver smiled politely. "Of course not, sir." Snape watched him darkly for a moment, then devoted his full attention to the cauldron in front of him. 

At that moment, a pile of books slammed down onto the table next to him and a girl sat down breathlessly. "Thought I was going to be late," she informed Oliver with a sheepish smile. 

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Are you sure you just didn't want to get here early to spend some quality time with me?" 

"Uh, yep, pretty sure." 

The girl who had just so casually shot down Oliver's ego was named Sam North. Her hair was brown and never seen out of a ponytail, her eyes were the same color, her skin was pale and freckled, and her nose was long. She was also, on and off, Marcus Flint's girlfriend. Thus, their rivalry is explained. Flint had trouble dealing with the fact that talking to him wasn't the pinnacle of conversation. He also had trouble dealing with the fact that the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team fascinated his girlfriend. 

"So," Sam began, "I was thinking we could work on the essay for Binns's class together." 

"Could that be because someone wasn't listening?" 

She gave him an innocent look. "I just figured that you'd need some help." 

Oliver rolled his eyes at her, but smiled all the same. "Sure, we can do it together. I've got Quidditch stuff to take care of first, though," he warned. 

"You've always got Quidditch stuff to do first." 

"What's your point?" 

People began to file into the dungeon, Marcus Flint among them. He was a huge boy, with bristly brown hair and crooked teeth. When he spotted Oliver and Sam, he shot Oliver a glare full of such loathing that the Gryffindor was mildly surprised Flint hadn't tried to kill him yet. Oliver returned the glare with a cheeky smile. He figured he was only confident enough to do that because Sam was sitting next to him, not Flint. The girl watched her boyfriend with a sour look on her face and said quietly, "Ignore him. He's mad because he wanted me to go down to the pitch with him tonight." 

Oliver gave her a confused look, aware of the fact that she was only fond of Quidditch in passing. "To practice with him?" 

"No." 

"Oh." Oliver caught the innuendo in her voice and also caught himself flushing slightly, much to his embarrassment. Awkwardly, he asked, "But you're…not?" 

"Romantic as it would have been, no. Aren't we doing our essay?" 

"Yeah," Oliver said, relieved. There was something about the idea of Sam and Flint in any kind of intimate position that made him extremely uncomfortable. Whether that was because Flint was a repulsive human being or Sam had become completely un-feminine to him, he didn't know. But he was glad she'd changed the subject. And, he admitted to himself, he was glad she wasn't going. 

In a few moments, class had started, and Oliver and Sam didn't have any opportunity to exchange words for most of the two hours, as Snape had prepared an extensive lecture. Finally, though, the eternity that was Double Potions came to a close, and the class spilled out into the hallway. 

Sam stuck close to Oliver in the rush and asked (rather loudly over the other students' chatter), "Do you want to do the essay in my Common Room tonight?" 

Oliver shot her a look that he hoped conveyed how insanely ludicrous that sounded. "Are you kidding? I'd be slaughtered. Those goons would kill me if I set foot anywhere _near_ the Slytherin Common Room." 

"You know, Oliver, there are some very nice people in Slytherin." 

"I know, but the ones who don't like me are very large and very violent. And I am but one man, Sam." 

"Nice rhyme." 

"I didn't mean to." 

"I know that." She stared at him for a moment. "The library, then? I already know you're not going to let me into Gryffindor." 

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "Do you have to say it like I'm such a jerk?" 

"Yes." 

He sighed. "The library sounds fine." 

"Good. You can meet me down there when you're done with your 'Quidditch stuff'." She smirked. "Hopefully it won't take you all night." 

She walked away and Oliver stifled a yawn, his exhaustion flooding back. For the rest of the day, he drifted through his classes, only waking up a bit when Fred and George pounced on him at lunch and regaled him with stories of the brilliant trick they'd played on Snape that morning. Other than that, however, Thursday was dull, and the only thing that kept him from falling asleep was the thought of gathering his team to talk about Quidditch. 

That night, Oliver anxiously waited for his team to show up in the Common Room. Harry was already there, off in a corner with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. After awhile, he approached Oliver and greeted him. 

Oliver realized then that he'd barely spoken to the boy since arriving at school, so he asked, "Been practicing over the summer, Harry?" 

Harry looked surprised. "Quidditch? I've told you about the Dursleys, haven't I?" 

"Possibly." 

"Oh. Well, no, I haven't been. My broomstick was locked in a closet all summer." 

At that moment, Fred and George appeared, soon followed by the team's three Chasers, Angelina, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell. The seven Gryffindors headed down to the locker rooms for their meeting. It took about an hour, and by the time Oliver had finished talking, he was thoroughly convinced that they'd win this year. Though, as George pointed out as they walked back up to the castle, the only other option for him would probably be suicide. 

Alicia Spinnet elbowed him and said, "Be quiet, don't get him thinking like that. We practically had to put bars on his windows last year, remember?" 

"I'm still here," Oliver reminded them crossly. 

Fred gave him a surprised look. "Oliver, when did you arrive?" 

"I was not suicidal last June." 

"Oh, you weren't?" Angelina asked, raising her eyebrows. "As I recall, you laid in bed for three or four days. Just couldn't get up, you said." 

George grinned. "So we won't blame you, Harry, if you don't catch the Snitch at every game and we find Oliver floating limply in the bathtub." 

Harry grimaced. "No pressure. Thanks." 

"None at all," Fred assured him. 

Inside, the rest of the team headed back to the Common Room, but Oliver veered off towards the library. Sam was sitting by herself at a table, bent studiously over a piece of parchment. He sat down across from her and asked, "Got a good start?" 

She held up the roll, which depicted, in magnificent stick-figure art, several people on fire. Oliver attempted to identify them by their hair styles, but he was eventually forced to inquire. "Well," Sam explained, "this one here is Marcus, this little sniveling one next to him is Malfoy, and _this_ one--" She pointed to a long-haired stick person who, in addition to the flames all over its body, seemed to have several knife wounds. "—is _Bletchley_." 

"Bletchley?" Wood gave her a blank look. "Slytherin's Keeper from a couple years ago?" 

Her lips curled into a sneer. "Yeah, and you know why she got on the team?" 

"Um." The anger on her face disturbed him a little. "No…?" 

"Because she's a whore!" Sam exploded. "A bloody tart! She's always flashing her cleavage all over the place and of course every guy in Slytherin _loves_ it…" 

"I don't really remember her having any cleavage," Oliver said doubtfully. 

Sam gave him a livid glare and hissed furiously, "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" 

He furrowed his brow at her. "Feel better about _what_?" 

Burying her face in her hands, she exclaimed, "You're so dense!" 

Oliver stared at her irritably. "If you want to talk, then don't insult me." 

She looked back up at him and her lip quivered for a second, but then she pulled on her ponytail (a sure sign she was upset—not that Oliver and half the people in the library couldn't already tell) and sighed forcefully. "It's nothing. I can handle it. It's okay." 

He gave her a piercing look. "It's obviously not." 

"You can't help me with it." 

"Well, don't you want to talk anyway?" 

"No. You won't understand at all." 

Oliver exhaled resignedly. "Okay. But if you're not going to talk to me about it, then try and stay away from calling me an idiot, all right?" 

Sam smiled weakly at him. "Okay. Sorry." 

"Do you want to do this essay?" 

"Yeah." 

Four hours later, the essay was finished, and Oliver was in his darkened dormitory, attempting to fall asleep. Since he was still awake, it could be said that he was having very little success. Sam's outpouring of anger had bothered him, and he couldn't get it out of his mind. Of course he really wasn't as dense as she had assumed in her fury, but without knowing the whole story, he hadn't been about to say anything. Anyway, he knew he wasn't going to be able to offer any comfort. He was bad at it, and in any case, consoling a girl who'd just discovered her boyfriend's infidelity wasn't something that he had experience with. He doubted it would have helped telling Sam how much he himself hated Flint. For one thing, she already knew. It was a subject they avoided. Obviously, it didn't take any stretch of imagination to figure out that this newest escapade of Flint's only further convinced Oliver that the Slytherin was not actually a human being. 

He had never understood what Sam saw in Flint. The boy must have had some kind of hugely redeeming quality, because they had been a couple for years. Either that or Sam was mentally unstable. Oliver was inclined to go with the latter explanation. If Oliver had been the violent, macho, vindictive type, he would have been in far more brawls with Flint over all the times he'd offended him with his general nastiness, this time included. However, he would content himself with the look on Flint's face when Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup in the spring. That would be a beautiful moment. 

Oliver fell asleep with the sound of cheering in his ears, doubly determined to win this year. 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Just wanted to thank my two glorious reviewers of the first chapter, SatanSaphire and FallohidePride. Thank you! Reviews make me happy, have I mentioned that? Oh, and also, have I mentioned that this story is complete but I don't really feel like spending my time posting it if no one reviews...? 

Chapter 2 

A month later, Gryffindor's prospects of winning were looking decidedly dimmer, and Oliver's social skills had dropped to an all-time low. In fact, so had his performance in his classes, his communication with other people, his appetite, and his will to live. Gryffindor had just lost their first match of the season, his Seeker was in the hospital, and the rest of the team didn't know whether to be furious at Oliver for being so upset about the loss of the match and not more upset about Harry plummeting fifty feet to the ground, or to try and be understanding so that he'd snap out of his usual post-loss depression. 

Angelina sought him out one day after her classes, finally finding him in the seventh-year boys' room, quietly working on an essay. For a while, he didn't realize she was there, and she stood in the door for a moment before walking in and sitting down next to him. "Hey Oliver," she said, "Got a minute?" 

He glanced over at her, surprise hardly showing on his face. "Sure." 

For a second, Angelina just stared at him. He was pale, and there were dark purple rings under his eyes. In the second she'd been able to see them, she'd also noticed that his eyes were completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "You haven't been eating, have you?" she asked him. 

"A bit. I'm not hungry." 

She nodded. "Oliver, you shouldn't take this so hard. It's only one game. That doesn't mean we can't still win." 

"It's going to be a lot harder." 

With a shrug, she replied, "So? You said yourself we're amazing." 

"We're the best. I don't know about amazing." 

"Well, then it's not nearly over." Angelina leaned down so she could see his face better. "Harry feels terrible, too. He's blaming it on himself completely." 

"Well, it's not really his fault," Oliver grunted. 

"I'm relieved to hear you say that." Angelina patted him on the shoulder. "We miss you down in the Common Room, Wood. A couple of your younger fans, especially." 

"Ugh, don't remind me." She smiled at him. "Stop moping. Our next match is only a month away, you know." Tugging gently on the sleeve of his robe, she said, "Come on. You might feel better." 

"I doubt it." 

"Wood." She gave him a stern look. "McGonagall has threatened to drag you out of here. You've gotten too much of a reputation for sinking into depression every time Gryffindor loses. This isn't healthy, you know." 

"Okay, okay!" Oliver got to his feet. "I'm coming. My four thousand word essay for Potions can wait." 

Angelina gave him a broad smile. "Good! Oh, and once you've spoken to the rest of your team and friends who are wondering whether or not you're dead, Samantha North was asking about you." 

Oliver cocked his head at her, noticing the slight emphasis she put on the name. "What wrong with Sam?" 

"Absolutely nothing is wrong with her. I want to know what's going on with you two." 

"Nothing's "going on." You've been bugging me about this for three years, and nothing's changed. We're still just friends." He looked at her meaningfully. "I don't see that changing." 

Angelina waved her hand. "All right, if you say so. I'll quit bothering you about it." 

"No you won't." 

"Well, no, I won't. You're right." Tugging his robe again, she said, "Now, let's go. I believe Fred and George were down in the kitchens earlier…" 

~ 

Oliver sat in the library, waiting for Sam to show up. Another Slytherin had promised to pass along the message that he'd be there doing homework. Eventually, she walked through the doors and stood there for a moment, scanning heads for his messy brown hair. When she saw him, she quickly made her way over and tousled his hair, making it even messier. "Hey, how are you?" 

"I've been better." 

"Quidditch?" 

"Yeah." 

"I think you guys can win." 

"Thanks. But aren't you supporting Slytherin?" 

"No." 

He was a bit taken aback by the forcefulness of her tone. "Well, I'm glad." 

Sam nodded, then her eyes lit up and she said brightly, "Guess what?" 

"I don't know." 

Excitedly, she began, "I don't really read very much, you know? But a couple days ago I found these really interesting books—I mean, I can't put them down—about the Dark Arts. There's just this really fascinating stuff about You-Know-Who. The man was…well, amazing, he was so powerful, and the things he did…" Sam trailed off as she noticed the rigid look on Oliver's face. "Er…Oliver…? Did I say something…?" 

He blinked rapidly and said somewhat harshly, "Did I ever tell you that he killed my sister?" 

Sam gave him a horrified look. "Oh, god, no, I didn't…" She stopped, then simply said, "I'm sorry." 

Shaking his head, though still avoiding her gaze, Oliver said, "You didn't kill her." 

"But I shouldn't have said that." 

"You didn't know." 

"I'm sorry anyway." 

Oliver sat there staring at the table for a long moment, and finally, he asked quietly, "I've never told you about Gwen?" Sam shook her head, and Oliver sighed. "She was great. Really great. A lot older than me. She was nineteen…I only knew her for five years of my life. Five years… She was my best friend, though. Always looked out for me. Played with me when my parents were busy." He paused, then added, "They were a lot. They worked in the Ministry—well, they still do. There weren't a lot of Ministry people up where we lived. Weren't many people at all. So Gwen took care of me all the time." 

When Oliver didn't say anything else, Sam reached over and hesitantly put her hand on his. "It was a long time ago." 

"It'll never be long enough ago. She wasn't involved. She wasn't an Auror. She was playing Quidditch by herself out on the moor." He paused again, then lowered his voice even further. "My brother saw the Dark Mark. He was sixteen. In his last year here. I remember I was confused why he was so frantic, and why he kept saying Gwen's name. But then I saw it, and I knew. I'd never seen it before, never heard of it, but I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong." Staring blankly at the table, Oliver continued, "She was getting ready to try out for Puddlemere United." With a smile that looked more like rigor mortis, he said, "So, you see, it runs in the family." 

Sam's brow was furrowed. "That's terrible." 

"My mother was suddenly very grateful for her accident when she was practically forty. Not that my parents didn't love me. They did. Just even more after Gwen died." 

There was a long moment of silence between the two of them, until eventually, with a strange look on her face, Sam said, "It's so odd." Without waiting for Oliver to respond, she went on, "Knowing somebody who was affected, I mean. Otherwise it's just so…I don't know. Like it didn't happen. Even though you know it did." 

Oliver gave her the smallest of nods. "It happened." 

At that moment, Sam realized her hand was still on top of Oliver's, and she withdrew it quickly. The action went completely unnoticed by him—he hadn't noticed that it was there in the first place. They sat there for a while, feeling awkward. Oliver knew he'd come down here to feel better, and now he'd dredged up memories that he was tired of reliving. And he could tell that Sam was embarrassed she'd brought it up. "Um, Sam?" His chair scraped as he stood up. "I should go." 

She jumped up as well. "Okay. Do you want to…eat breakfast tomorrow?" 

"Sure. Find me." 

"I will." 

He walked away, but she didn't follow him, and Oliver was somewhat grateful. The gleam in her eyes when she'd been talking about You-Know-Who wasn't something he'd needed to see. Something was happening to his friend, and he couldn't figure out what it was, no matter how long he watched her. Sam was normally such a peaceful person, and lately she'd been talking more and more about death. Draco Malfoy had something to do with it, that much he knew. She despised him. Not that Oliver was all that fond of the brat himself—Malfoy was a little twit who didn't know when to keep his poisonous little mouth shut. Oliver's blood still boiled when he remembered the day he'd called Hermione Granger "Mudblood." It didn't help that he was Slytherin's Seeker, either. He had a maddening tendency to whiz by Oliver as close and as fast as he could during Quidditch matches. Oliver had been highly tempted to lob the Quaffle at him once or twice. 

But Sam's vehemence went far beyond Oliver's. Oliver knew he acted crazy and strange and frighteningly obsessive, but this was something different that even the Weasley twins couldn't laugh at. 

He would have to talk to her about it. Problem was, he didn't know what to say. "Excuse me, Sam, but you seem to be showing some of the traits of a violent sociopath. Is something wrong?" Ha. Right. He knew there was something going wrong in her relationship with Flint. The way it sounded, it was namely that Flint was cheating on her. Perhaps that was something he could bring up with her. On the other hand, if she didn't want to talk about it, then he didn't want to embarrass her by bringing it up. This was a dilemma, and no mistake. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

A blood-curdling scream sounded throughout Gryffindor tower. Oliver awoke with a jolt, along with everyone else in his dormitory. Percy Weasley's eyes were wide and frightened, his dignity momentarily forgotten. "That sounded like Ron!" he yelped, jumping out of bed. 

Oliver yawned. "Well, what's he think he's doing, waking us all up?" 

Percy wasn't listening—he had thrown open the door and was thundering down the stairs. Oliver rolled over, determined to ignore everything and go back to sleep, but the babble of voices outside kept growing louder and louder. Finally, he sighed in exasperation and dragged himself to the door. 

"Sirius Black!" was the first thing he heard, in a loud, terrified voice. "Sirius Black was in my room! Over my bed! Tried to kill me!" 

Oliver furrowed his brow and made his way towards the voice, which did sound like Ron. He ended up in the Common Room, where a small, but quickly growing circle surrounded the youngest Weasley boy. Fred and George were there, right next to Ron, along with Harry and Percy. As Oliver pushed his way past gawkers, he met up with Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley, who both gave him looks of utter confusion. "What's he screaming about?" Hermione questioned. 

With a shrug, he replied, "Sirius Black tried to kill him? Got me." 

"He was after Harry!" Ginny shrieked, then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. 

The same thought seemed to have occurred to Harry, who was looking mildly queasy. "Someone went to get McGonagall," he said, his voice coming out as something of a squeak. "You can all probably go back to bed." 

"Don't be a twit, Harry," Fred said with a grin, though he was obviously forcing it and looked slightly nervous himself. 

"We're not going anywhere with a crazed, escaped murderer on the loose," George added. 

"And of course we want to protect you," Fred concluded, attempting to lighten the situation. He didn't seem to think his own joke was particularly funny, though, and only a couple people smiled weakly. 

"Ron, what _happened_?" Hermione demanded. 

Ron was shaking and was white as a sheet. "I woke up…and…and Sirius Black was there…with a knife…I thought I was _dead_, and then I thought that he was going to kill _Harry_…" 

At that moment, McGonagall strode in and demanded to know what happened. When the story was told in its entirety and Sir Cadogan questioned, McGonagall asked in a tight voice, "Which person—which _abysmally foolish_ person wrote down the week's passwords and left them laying around for anyone to find?" 

A small, chubby boy who Oliver had seen but didn't know the name of squeaked in fear and raised a shaking hand into the air. McGonagall looked ready to kill somebody as she marched over to the boy and grabbed his shoulder. "I want everyone to sleep in the Common Room tonight until this matter has been resolved. Percy, make sure everyone is accounted for." She strode out of the tower, trailing the chubby and terrified boy behind her. Everyone began dispersing as sleeping bags appeared in the Common Room, but Oliver made his way over to Fred and George. 

When they saw him coming and the determine expression on his face, they groaned, and Fred began in a despairing tone, "It's too late for Quidditch, Wood." 

"We just want to sleep," George agreed. "Remember? We just won a game. We don't need to practice until tomorrow night." 

"This isn't about practicing," Oliver said in a low tone. The twins looked shocked, and he continued, "I want you to watch Harry." 

"Er…why?" 

"Isn't it obvious?" 

Fred started edging behind his brother in mock fear. "He's gone nutters." 

Oliver gave them a frustrated look. "I can't lose Harry as a Seeker! We'll never win the Cup without him! Why didn't anyone tell me that Sirius Black was after him? Everyone else seems to know." 

"Not exactly," George mumbled. 

"The point is, I want you two to make sure he's safe. _At all times_. Don't let him out of your sight." 

"Wood, we have classes! Harry's _got_ other friends!" 

There was a slightly maniacal gleam in Oliver's eyes. "I'm telling you two to do it." 

"And what if Sirius Black comes after us?" Fred questioned. "Then you'll lose your Seeker _and_ your Beaters." 

"No," George told him. "You do it if you're so concerned." 

"I have other things on my mind." 

"Yeah, Quidditch." 

"Not _just_ Quidditch." 

"Yeah, you've really improved as a liar, Wood." 

The conversation was abruptly cut off as Percy came around ordering everyone to bed. Oliver _did_ have other things on his mind, and those, on top of the Sirius Black fiasco, kept him awake all night. He could hear muted voices and whispers every so often from all around the room, so he knew that no one else slept, either. 

The following morning at breakfast, Oliver spent the majority of the time staring blearily at his bacon. The thought of going to bed was enough to make him want to find a small hole somewhere and curl up in it. The rest of the Gryffindors had similar expressions on their faces—that is, the ones who had bothered getting up. 

"Hey," a voice said from above him. 

He slowly turned to look at the speaker. "Oh. Hello, Sam." 

Plopping down next to him, she asked, "Get any sleep?" 

"No. Doesn't look like you did, either." 

Sam sighed. "Everyone who was scared didn't want to admit it, so half of us sat in silence last night while the other half listened to Malfoy go on about how he'd join in and help Black kill Potter. All he had to do was ask, Malfoy kept saying. Blah, blah, blah. He looked like he was sick, though, he was so pale. Something finally scared the prat." 

"And you?" 

She gave him a strange look. "What do you mean?" 

"Were you scared?" 

"Were you?" 

"He was terrified," Angelina said from the other side of the table, a wan smile on her face. 

"Cried himself to sleep," Fred agreed. 

Laughing half-heartedly, Sam said, "I bet. Um." She cleared her throat and stared at her feet. "You think I can talk to you for a minute, Oliver?" 

Her subdued manner surprised him a little. Usually she blurted out everything in front of everyone. "Sure." He rose from the table and followed her out of the Great Hall to a dark niche in the corridor. As he leaned against the wall, he questioned, "What's wrong?" 

"A lot." 

"I can tell." 

"You want to talk about it?" 

Without looking at him, she replied, "I don't know how much I can even talk about. I…" She broke off and sighed in frustration. "I caught them together last night." 

Even though he thought he already knew, he asked, "Caught who?" 

"Marcus and Bletchley." She bit her lip. "I mean—I—I've thought there was something between them for awhile now. But…well, Melissa and I have always gotten along--" 

"You have?" Oliver asked with a raised eyebrow. "It never sounded that way to me." 

"We have." Sam sighed again. "So I didn't really want to believe that she'd do something like that. Marcus, I'd expect it from, but not Melissa." 

There was a short silence between them for a second before Oliver asked, "So what are you going to do?" 

"Do?" 

"You'll stop dating him, won't you?" he prodded. 

She gave him a shocked look. "No." 

"_No_?" Oliver took her shoulders, which seemed to startle her. "Sam, _why_? He makes you miserable!" 

"He does not!" she objected. "You don't know what he's really like…" 

Giving her a direct look, Oliver said, "You didn't use to be like this. He _used_ to make you happy, I think. But--" 

"Oliver, _don't_ give me advice on my love life." She smiled bitterly. "Anyway, I gave her a black eye." 

This gave Oliver pause. In all the time he'd known her, Sam had never raised a hand (or wand) against anyone. She had never been the violent type. In fact, he could recall at least one occasion when seeing a brawl in the hallways had put her in the foulest of moods, and he hadn't been able to talk to her normally for the rest of the day. So, in his typical fashion, he asked only, "Why?" 

Shrugging, Sam replied, "Because she's a bloody tart and she deserved it." She paused, then added, "Snape gave me detention." 

Here was one thing he could safely comment on, at least. "Blighter." 

"Not really. He's a good Head of House. Things could have been a lot worse last night if not for him." 

Comparatively speaking, these were glowing words. "And should I ask why?" 

"He doesn't assign detentions without finding out exactly what happened." When Oliver snorted, she clarified, "Well, at least not to Slytherins. And I suppose I looked distraught. Anyway, he talked to me. Actually, he said basically the same things that you did." 

"And?" 

"And I think that may be what really got me detention--I said the exact same thing to him." 

"Telling Snape to mind his own business isn't a good idea." 

"Believe me, after seven years, I've figured that out. Anyway." She sighed. "Thanks for letting me dump all this on you." 

Oliver gave her a pat on the shoulder. "As long as it makes you feel better." 

An attempt at a smile hovered on her lips for a moment, though it looked more like a grimace. "Yeah. It didn't, but…" Before he had a chance to respond, she turned and walked off, calling over her shoulder. "I've got class. See you around." 

He watched her go, feeling as though he should have said something else. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it should have been. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

The end of the year looked a lot closer from the other side of Christmas break, and Oliver suddenly had Quidditch and his N.E.W.T.s to worry about. Neither was for two months, but the fact that a date had been assigned to both was mildly nerve-wracking. Snape was also notoriously cruel to seventh years, often assigning multiple essays a week, not to mention antidote tests on a regular basis. Potions was always a mildly harrowing experience. In the past, Oliver had always had Sam to rely on for help (Potions was one of her best subjects), but in the past several weeks, her grades had been slipping. On more than one occasion, Snape had asked her to stay after class, and she always came out of these sessions looking sullen. Not only that, but most of the time she looked exhausted. She barely spoke and was almost always holding one book or another, which she'd always hastily put away when Oliver showed up. She'd never been much of a reader before, and he wondered about what had grabbed her attention so suddenly. Of course, he had his suspicions--he remembered their conversation in the library those months ago. But he still had no idea how to confront her about it. There had been a couple times where it had crossed his mind to speak to a professor--but Sam would never forgive him. Especially if there was nothing wrong. Maybe she was just interested. Maybe she only wanted to know what she could run into. What some people were capable of. After all, she wasn't violent, or remotely nasty. She wasn't friends with the people whose parents were widely believed to be Death Eaters. 

But she was reading books about the Dark Arts. If he went to a professor, who would it be? Shouldn't it be her Head of House? No, Snape was probably up to his elbows in the Dark Arts. He'd probably encourage her. That basically left him stymied, because whoever he spoke to, Snape would have to be told. 

Weeks passed in this manner, until finally, much too soon, the last Quidditch game of the season was upon him. Oliver could barely speak the day before the match, despite Fred and George's attempts to make him. He noticed he wasn't the only one who was nervous beyond belief--whenever he passed Harry in the halls, the Seeker looked rather queasy, and Ron and Hermione both spent most of the day looking concerned and offering him food. Angelina tried that on Oliver once, but gave up when he attempted to take a sip of pumpkin juice and ended up choking on it because the muscles in his throat were barely working. 

The entire team was subdued the next morning in the locker rooms. When they assembled, fully dressed, he found he really _couldn't_ speak. They were all staring at him, the determination plain on their faces. Even the twins looked serious for once. Oliver opened his mouth to say some words of encouragement, but all that came out was a raspy sort of squeaking noise (which _did_ get a smile out of the twins). Clearing his throat, he managed to force out, "Okay, it's time. Let's go…" 

It figured that he wouldn't remember any of the best game his team had ever played. He knew he'd ended up bawling, because he was still periodically bursting into tears of joy in the Common Room that night. Fred and George thought it was quite witty to pull out umbrellas on these occasions. 

Unsurprisingly, he was completely exhausted, but before he went up to his room, he pulled Harry aside and began awkwardly, "Harry, I just wanted to say…that is, I know I haven't always been the nicest person in the world…and I've put a lot of pressure on you and whatnot…but…thanks. Thank you for…well, winning." 

Harry grinned. "You're welcome. And I wanted to win just as much as you did. The look on Malfoy's face…" 

Oliver smirked at that. "The look on Flint's." He held out his hand, and Harry shook it. "Anyway, I probably won't be seeing much of you until school ends." 

"Right, studying." Harry sighed. "Well, you'll be at the Quidditch World Cup, won't you?" 

His eyes lit up. "I wouldn't miss it." 

"I might go. If I can. Maybe I'll see you there. But if I don't, then good luck on making Puddlemere. I'd bet anything you will." 

"We'll see." He needed to start training for that… "Keep playing, Harry. You're an amazing Seeker. Maybe you'll be captain of the team next year." 

Harry looked doubtful. "Maybe." With a yawn, he said, "I'd better go to bed. Good-night." 

"'Night, Harry." Oliver climbed the remaining stairs to his room, changed, and climbed into bed. Tomorrow he'd begin studying. Studying… There was something he hadn't done in awhile. 

~ 

Monday night, after dinner, Oliver took his broom down to the pitch and zoomed around it for a good hour or two. Flying tended to muddle his sense of time. It also occurred to him while he was up there that it could be the last time he ever saw Hogwarts from the air that way. The thought gave him a bit of a start. His seven years at Hogwarts really hadn't seemed so long. But they'd been good. It was hard to believe he'd be leaving forever in a week--or if not forever, then for awhile. And he'd never recapture the feeling of being a student there. 

He glanced down and noticed a small figure on the ground staring up at him, ponytail blowing in the wind. Oliver went into a dive and pulled out of it just in time to leap from his broomstick to grass, right in front of Sam. 

Smiling wearily, she said, "Bravo." 

Oliver stuck his broom into the ground and studied her. "I haven't seen you lately. Why weren't you in Potions today?" 

"Sick," she responded curtly. "I had permission to be absent." 

Looking at her more closely, he noticed that her eyes were quite red. Suspiciously, he asked, "Sick with what? What's wrong?" 

Sam tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a choked-back sob. "Nothing's wrong. As usual, nothing's wrong." 

With a sigh, he said, "You knew I'd be down here. Tell me what's wrong." After a moment, he added, "Is it Flint?" 

She persisted in shaking her head. "It's nothing. I came down here because…because I haven't talked to you for such a long time. I wanted to see you." Suddenly, she gripped both his hands tightly, and Oliver, quite unsure of what to do, asked her (rather stupidly, and even he knew), "Are you going to cry?" 

She laughed, but it sounded suspiciously like she was trying to disguise a sniffle. "No, don't worry." 

"Um." Oliver studied her pale face. She was so much paler than he remembered. "Sam, I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you. Whatever it is, it's been going on all year. I don't like seeing you like this all the time." 

For a minute, she didn't say anything, but then she looked up at him, and her eyes were shining with tears. "Oh, Oliver," she whimpered, and then threw her arms around his neck. 

He stiffened in her embrace but hesitantly put his arms up and patted her back. This was not something he had expected, nor was it something he was comfortable with. In fact, he really wished Sam would stop clinging to him. He knew that was a horrible thought. He should be there for his friend if she needed him. But a nasty feeling was creeping up on him that perhaps Sam wanted a little more than friendship. 

Abruptly, Sam let go of him. "What? What's wrong?" 

Oliver raised his eyebrows and tried to smile. "Nothing." As if she couldn't tell he was lying. 

"You didn't like that." 

"Sam, I just want you to stop being so sad all the time." 

Looking at him suspiciously, she asked, "What does that mean?" 

The conversation was beginning to tire him. He knew that whatever he said was going to have some kind of unwanted consequence for both of them. "If it makes you feel better, then it's okay." 

Now she was openly gawking at him, though there was a strange hope glinting in her eyes. After a moment, she stepped up to him again and quickly put her lips to his. 

Even though he'd figured something of the sort was coming, the kiss still took him by surprise and it took him a second to pull away. There wasn't much else to do. He certainly wasn't going to pretend to be enjoying himself. Sam was his best friend. Talking to her was great. But he knew that he did _not_ want this. And he knew he was going to hurt her. 

She stared at him. Her eyes looked bruised—she _was_ hurt. Of course. "I…" 

Oliver put his hands firmly on her shoulders, partly to provide her with some measure of comfort (he hoped) and partly to make sure she wouldn't try to kiss him again. "Sam, I don't feel that way about you. You know that, don't you?" 

He'd thought she did. Apparently, he was wrong. 

Instead of bursting into tears, which he was dreading but expecting, her eyes hardened and she pulled away from him roughly. The look on her face was fast approaching murderous. "Oh, of course," she spat. Surprised by the amount of bitterness in her tone, Oliver recoiled slightly. Sam glared, her face twisting into the now-familiar expression of pure hatred. The one she usually saved for Flint or Malfoy. She had never turned it on him. "I should have known. You said it was okay! You said you didn't want me to be sad!" 

"I didn't mean I was attracted to you!" Oliver said helplessly. This was turning out worse than he'd thought. 

"Then what the hell did you mean, exactly?!" She took a breath, apparently trying to calm herself, but her anger won out. "You acted like you liked me! Why'd you do it if you were just going to end up embarrassing me?! You're just like Marcus, you know that? Just a stupid, selfish guy who never thinks about anything but himself. I was there for you to talk to after everything else in your life got boring, and that's what you used me for, and I let you!" 

"I didn't use you!" Oliver exclaimed. He knew that she was just angry, that she didn't mean half of what she was saying, but it was hard to sit there and just take the abuse. "I liked you for who you were, Sam! I _liked_ the fact that I didn't have to talk Quidditch with you! So has our entire friendship just been because you had some schoolgirl crush on me?" 

"No!" 

"Well, it sure looks that way to me." 

Before she could retort and scream at him some more, he stalked up the hill and back to the castle. "Oliver!" she called, but when he didn't turn around, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Fuck you!" 

Oliver just set his shoulders and kept walking. That was it, then. Good-bye, Sam. Maybe he'd better start calling her Samantha. It had come to his attention that the only people that called her Sam were himself and Flint. 

He shouldn't have yelled at her. He really shouldn't have gotten angry. But he couldn't stand her accusing him like that. Okay, so maybe he hadn't been the best friend in the world. There were times when he avoided everybody for days at a time to focus on Quidditch. But it hadn't ever occurred to him that he might have been doing some damage… But Sam had known that about him! She knew who he was before he'd even noticed her! And she'd kept talking to him, even when he'd been nasty and antisocial. Oliver stopped, torn between turning back and apologizing or keeping on to show her that she couldn't make accusations like that and not expect him to react. His pride won out, and he kept going. 

~ 

He avoided contact with Sam for the next several days, which didn't prove to be particularly difficult--she was nowhere to be seen. Not in the corridors between classes or, for that matter, in class. Potions was only mildly hellish without her there. Although, in lieu of recent events, things probably wouldn't have been any better had she been there. He'd never felt worse about things in his life, but something held him back from seeking Sam out. Whether it was because of impending N.E.W.T.s (too busy to be socializing), his pride, or his inability to find the right thing to say… Her absence from life worried him, but by the same token, he refused to find her and talk to her. 

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, Snape asked to speak to him. 

Oliver had just been innocently gathering up his things in Potions, readying himself to leave, when Snape's voice broke through his thoughts. So now he was standing in the Potion Master's office, nervously glancing at things in bottles that he really didn't want to see. 

Snape watched him for a moment, eyebrow arched, before saying, "You can stop acting as though your life is flashing before your eyes. I asked you here because I have some questions regarding a member of my House. I believe the two of you are--or rather, were--very close. Samantha North?" 

"We're friends," Oliver replied uncomfortably. 

There was no change of expression on Snape's face for quite some time, and just as the silence started to _really_ bother Oliver, the professor said, "Her behavior worries me, Mr. Wood." 

"What's she been doing?" Oliver asked, concerned. 

"Nothing." Snape folded his hands on his desk. "She does absolutely nothing, besides sit on her bed. I have tried talking to her, reasoning with her, and punishing her, but she does nothing. Occasionally she'll ask one of her peers to bring her something to eat from dinner. She refuses to go herself." Looking blackly at Oliver, he continued, "I know this has something to do with you." 

Quite abruptly, Oliver paled. "Professor Snape…sir…I really didn't do anything…" 

"I'm well aware of that, Wood," Snape said sharply. In a more reflective tone, he added, "At least, I'm sure you didn't _intentionally_ do anything to Miss North. However, I have not been blind to her affections for you. Last Sunday at dinner, she left the Great Hall, presumably to look for you. She came back in tears, shortly, if my sources are correct, after you." 

"Your sources?" the boy asked doubtfully. 

"Yes, I believe you know her, Wood. Professor McGonagall. We do watch our students, you know. When one of them comes back hiccoughing with sobs, it's best to attempt to find out what happened." As Oliver opened his mouth to respond, Snape added, "However, you can spare me the full maudlin account, as I'm sure I can guess rather accurately. I want to know about everything before then." 

In a way, the order lifted a huge weight from Oliver's shoulders. Now he had to say something, even if he didn't want to. "Mostly, sir, she just started to become more…er…well, maybe I shouldn't say." 

"Please do." 

"Well, more like…the way I always imagined Slytherins were supposed to be." 

"Your attempt at diplomacy is admirable. Explain." 

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "She started reading about the Dark Arts all the time. Once she told me You-Know-Who was an amazing wizard. There were times when she was very…violent, I suppose. She hasn't been at all happy this year." 

For a moment, Snape regarded him, and then said, "I suppose you deserve to know, as you're one of her only remaining friends--I suspect Miss North has been suffering from depression all year. She won't admit to it, of course." He sighed. "If I'm able to convince her to leave her room, please talk to her, Mr. Wood. I'm concerned about what she may do once she graduates." 

"What do you mean?" 

He didn't answer right away, instead staring darkly at some point beyond Oliver's shoulder. The moment of silence didn't last long, however, and he replied, "Nothing of importance. You may go." 

~ 

The N.E.W.T.s came and went, and weren't nearly as difficult as Oliver had expected. By some miracle, Sam appeared to take them and even managed to eat lunch in the Great Hall. Ignoring Fred and George, who had just finished sitting their O.W.L.s, Oliver made his way to the far end of the Slytherin table, where Sam was sitting. As he slid onto the bench next to her, he greeted, "Hello." 

Sam didn't respond for a long time, instead concentrating on mechanically chewing her food and staring at her plate. Finally, however, she mumbled, "Hi." 

"Sam, I'm sorry." 

"So I am," she answered in a dead tone. 

When she didn't say anything else, he said, "Could we talk?" 

"I'd rather not. I'm eating." 

"Sam." Oliver stared at her for a long time, but she didn't even glance at him. When it became evident that she wasn't planning on speaking again, he sighed and got to his feet, determined to find her and try again later. 

His opportunity came that night, as he was on his way back to Gryffindor Tower. He noticed a figure crouched behind one of the suits of armor, and, on closer inspection, he saw that it was Sam, and, oddly, she had her wand drawn. He said her name cautiously, and she started, opening her mouth to yell something. When she realized who it was, she lowered her wand and stared at him. "It's you." 

He tried to ignore whatever she was going to say and began, "Sam, can we please talk?" 

"Snape told you to do this, didn't he?" 

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Why do you say that?" 

"Because he's been harassing me all week." 

"Well, yes, he did say that I should talk to you." He didn't care if it was the wrong thing to say. For once, he was not going to worry about watching every word that came out of his mouth. "But I wanted to talk to you anyway. You've been my friend for years, Sam, and…I don't want you to not be, I guess." 

She barely blinked for a long time and made no move to respond. Oliver figured he could wait as long as he needed to. After all, he had nothing to do. Finally, Sam sighed and conceded, "I don't want to not be, either." Suddenly, her eyes flashed. "But you humiliated me, you know that?" 

"It would have happened sooner or later." 

"It wouldn't have happened if I wasn't so stupid." 

He attempted a smile, just to see if he could get her to return it. She didn't, so he said in a tone close to pleading, "Could we forget about it? It won't bother me if it doesn't bother you." 

In a mumble, she asked, "How do I know you didn't mean those things you said?" 

"I didn't. I just got angry. So did you. But you didn't mean what you said, either." 

"Maybe I did," she responded in a barely audible tone. 

"You didn't," he said firmly. 

For a long moment, she just stared at the ground in silence, until finally, she muttered, "I'm not going to cry." 

When she didn't add anything else to that comment, Oliver remarked, "I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you. Pretty much anyone can see that something's wrong, Sam." 

"_You_ can see there is, maybe. Snape can. Do you really think anyone else cares?" 

"I'm sure a lot of people care, especially in Slytherin." 

She gave a snort of bitter laughter. "I doubt that." 

There was another minute of silence between them before Oliver attempted, "Sam?" 

Without looking up, she replied, "What?" 

He stared at her for a minute, then cautiously pulled her into a hug. "Come visit this summer," he mumbled to her. "I _am_ going to help you." 

In a desolate tone, she responded, "You can try." 

Suddenly, something large and heavy crashed into Oliver from the side, sending both him and Sam stumbling. Oliver really didn't have to think twice about whom it was--Flint was, of course, standing there, looking furious, as usual. The surprise, however, was the fact that Draco Malfoy was skulking behind him. 

"Sam," Flint began nastily, nodding to her. "What a surprise. I come back from the Quidditch pitch and find Wood hitting on my girlfriend." 

"Marcus," Sam began uncertainly, "I thought that we weren't…" 

"Shut up, Sam. You were letting him, weren't you?" She opened her mouth to deny it, but before she could say anything, Flint went on, "Just what did you think you were doing, Wood?" 

Oliver considered retorting, "succeeding where you failed," but thought better of it and instead replied as calmly as possible, "Trying to help out a _friend_." 

"I doubt it," Malfoy spoke up. "He spends more time with North than he does with anybody in his own house." 

"Stuff it, you little blighter," Sam snapped at the younger boy. Malfoy just smiled maliciously. 

Flint shoved Oliver against the wall and gave him a nasty grin. "What do you say, Wood? Think you're a match for me?" 

"No," Oliver replied, attempting to keep his tone even. It was difficult with his arch-nemesis leering in his face. And, he supposed, it was also cowardly, but he _wasn't_ a match for him. Not all six feet of him. "Get away from me, Flint." 

"Why should I?" 

"Because you're an immature, possessive twat!" Sam broke in. Her wand was out and she was trembling visibly. "Get away from him, Marcus. Get away from him, and just leave both of us alone until the end of the year. I never want to speak to you again." 

Flint looked at her flatly for a moment, pointed his wand, and then said in a dismissive tone, "Petrificus totalus." 

The spell hit her before she had a chance to duck, and Flint turned back to Oliver. He swung his fist around and cracked it against Oliver's nose. Oliver felt the bone splinter and he reeled dizzily for a second, right before getting another fist in the stomach. The thought occurred far back in his mind that he should fight back before he got beaten to a bloody pulp. Flint's fist smashed into his face again, and he lashed out with a blow of his own. He landed an ineffectual, glancing blow on Flint's jaw, and the older boy just laughed and crushed Oliver's already gushing nose again. Vaguely, Oliver noticed that Malfoy just stood there smiling. Little blighter. Sam was right. 

Something made Flint stop at that moment. Not remorse, certainly, but he let go of Oliver and ambled down the corridor with Malfoy at his heels. 

For what seemed like a long time, Oliver just stood there with blood pouring from his nose, thinking, obscurely, that Filch would have a fit if he bled on the floor. With a jolt, though, he remembered Sam and the spell, but when he looked, she was gone. He attempted to shake off his daze and began to walk down the hallway, but when he came to a corner, Snape was suddenly there. 

"Oh. Professor," he began. "I--" 

"Come with me, Wood," Snape commanded. 

Oliver saw Sam, then. Snape's fingers were clutched tightly around her arm, as if he expected her to bolt at any moment. The look on her face terrified him far more than the thought of losing Quidditch to Slytherin ever had. Her eyes were beyond stony. They looked dead. Her face was drained of all color and was about the color of Hogwarts on an overcast day. 

However, she didn't resist as Snape all but pulled her towards the hospital wing, with Oliver following close behind. Snape fumbled for something in his robes while they walked, and then pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Oliver, saying in a tone that brooked no argument, "You're dripping blood all down the hallway. Please make an attempt to stifle it before some unsuspecting student thinks there's been a murder." 

Oliver gratefully took it and held it to his face. They reached the hospital wing shortly afterwards, and Madame Pomfrey sighed when she saw the state the Gryffindor was in. "Another fight, Wood? Flint, I suppose." 

Before Oliver could answer, Snape said, "Presumably. He won't be going unpunished this time." He towed Sam over to a bed and almost gently sat her down on it. "Samantha, what did he do to you?" 

She stared at the floor before mumbling in a barely coherent voice, "Cast Petrificus totalus on me." 

Snape's face hardened and he touched her shoulder briefly before walking to the door. "Poppy, give her some chocolate." Then, he strode away, cloak billowing. Oliver almost felt bad for Flint. After all, being on the receiving side of Snape's fury was an ordeal. 

For the next half hour, Madam Pomfrey tended to Oliver's nose (which _was_ broken) and various other bruises. While she was cleaning up, the small, chubby Gryffindor (who Oliver had since learned was named Neville) was brought in by McGonagall. While the matron saw to him, Oliver approached his friend and sat down next to her. "Sam," he said softly. "Sam, are you okay?" 

She turned her head to look at him and just stared blankly for several seconds. Finally, she answered. "I'm fine." 

"That was a blatant lie." 

"No. I'm fine. I understand things now." 

"Understand _what_?" He stared hard at her, but she refused to say more. "Sam, I'm worried about you. I wish you'd just let me help." 

"No. I can help myself. Anyway, I just said. I know what I have to do." 

He couldn't get her to say anymore, and eventually, Madam Pomfrey sent them both back to their common rooms. Oliver didn't want Sam to have to go back there--he knew Flint would probably have some cruelty ready for her. No matter what he said, though, she wouldn't go with him to the library, or the Great Hall, or down by the lake. "I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow, right, Sam?" he questioned as they parted ways. She just nodded and turned her back on him, then walked down the hall. 

~ 

The Hogwarts Express was, as usual, a complete fiasco. Everyone was saying their good-byes, including Oliver, since almost every one of his friends was several years younger than him. For the duration of his ride back, however, all the way to Glasglow, he couldn't find Sam. He was convinced he'd checked every compartment for her, and asked every student at Hogwarts, but no one had seen her. 

Nor did he ever find her. He disembarked the train in Glasglow and was met by his parents, who immediately wanted to know all about winning the Quidditch Cup. Before he told them, he turned back to the train, which was pulling out of the station. He managed to catch a glimpse of most of the Weasleys in the window and waved briefly. Of course, he didn't see Sam. He'd hoped, for a second, that maybe he _would_ get a chance to say some sort of good-bye to her, after all. 

With a small ache in his chest, he turned to his parents and answered their questions. They had one about his friend--Sam North, was it?--and he answered dutifully, yes, they were still friends. 

Oliver had a horrible feeling about Sam though. Both that he'd never see her again, and that whatever was wrong with her wasn't going to go away, and something was going to come of it. But he'd realized, finally, that there was nothing he could do for her. 

He wondered, though. He wondered if maybe he could have done something if only he'd noticed sooner. If only. 


End file.
